81. CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
After Eoghan left Daniel’s office, the meeting with my brother consisted of a terse and shame-inducing update on our mother, excluding how Eoghan is paying for everything.
I also didn’t address his accusation I’m sleeping with Eoghan. It’s none of his business.
When I asked Daniel what he planned to do about the dead witnesses, he sat down and said he’d assign investigators to confirm the death certificates which listed natural causes. That explains why they never showed up as murder victims, and why no one cross-matched them to our investigation.
I wanted to argue for the case, since it was the reason I agreed to be used as a courier. But I know Eoghan expects me to quit and go to New York with him. Tonight. I want that, too, but if I’m assigned, I won’t pass up this career opportunity.
Plus, I have my mother to worry about. Surely, he’ll understand.
Eoghan is my future. I know it. We’ll figure it out. I hope he’s a long-distance-relationship kind of guy. I have too much vested in my work here right now, and though it would pain me, I’m willing to risk him thinking I’m not worth it.
We just met. I have the right to get my shit together and tie up loose ends before running off to be his arm-candy. What else does he want me for? We never talked beyond me being his.
Then these crazy texts from Johnny came in, and I’ve been a wreck ever since. It’s stolen my focus and maybe my good sense because here I am…walking into The Candy Store.
No mask.
No problem.
I consider knowing what Johnny looks like after today works in my favor. He has to know that, too, and I feel confident he doesn’t want to hurt me.
He said he just wants one more time with me.
Perhaps he’s obsessed with me, as I’d once been with him. I’m just here to talk him off the ledge, since he couldn’t be reasoned with on the app. I had no other way to contact him.
This has to end. I can’t have him doing something like show up on my balcony, especially when Eoghan is there.
He’ll kill Johnny. I’m sure of it.
I grabbed an Uber from the office and went home for my car to meet Johnny. My boring silver Honda won’t stand out in The Candy Store parking lot. I’m not on anyone’s radar. No one cares about me.
Just Eoghan, who noticed me when everyone in this city looked past me.
I drive to the strip joint to explain in person to Johnny why we can’t continue. I’m… I’m in love Eoghan O’Rourke. And if Johnny hasn’t figured it out, I’ll explain who Eoghan is in blunt terms and that should end things.
What moron wants to fuck with a mob boss’s woman?
Johnny hasn’t committed a crime. Other than threatening to out me as a woman who uses a hook-up app. It’s a form of revenge porn, and the other division prosecuted a few cases but only after one party actually released damaging photos on social media.
Nothing happens to people who threaten such sick acts. Like most crimes against women, assholes have to actually physically assault a woman to face accountability and justice.
But outing me in some heinous public way will threaten my career, and more importantly, my relationship with Eoghan. Maybe no one in Vegas will care that a prosecutor has kinky sex needs. But if Johnny has pictures or audio?
I might lose Eoghan.
He accepted what I did with Johnny B. Goode. He won’t accept any visual or sound reminders. Or that I might come with baggage like a stalker.
A real one.
I get why Johnny is going over the edge. He played the role of a stalker as part of the fantasy I’d signed up for because apparently, he actually was one. My gut nags me that I should have told Eoghan about these messages. But he’ll kill Johnny, and I’d rather not have that on my conscience.
I don’t live in the gray. Murder isn’t a proper response to being threatened.
At the entrance to The Candy Store, they don’t frisk me, or check my purse, where my 9mm Ruger handgun sits tucked under my wallet.
The gun is just to make sure Johnny doesn’t touch me. Again. And that’s for his own good. Not mine.
The Candy Store isn’t a shady operation tucked somewhere down a dark alley. It’s right on the strip.
I reach the end of a tunnel-like hallway that leads to the main room of the club, a typical look for places like this, with a black mirrored floor, dark cherry tables, and wooden chairs. A U-shaped stage sits in the center and a few girls casually stroll in different sections, being playful, teasing early-bird customers.
It’s about noon, yet this room is half full of men in suits, some in leather jackets, and some who look like frat boys from UNLV.
The club smells of perfume. It’s pleasant, and I’m guessing it’s pheromone-based to get men in the mood. Dark pin lights line the mirrored floor, and a glow from the neon signs behind the bar shines brightly.
Johnny always wore a mask, so I’m flying blind.
When I feel a body behind me, I clutch my bag.
Warm breath fans my neck. “You’re wanted in the private lounge, Miss Diamond.”
I spin around to find a man in a dark suit with a burgundy shirt. I know he’s not Johnny, simply by his height and slender build.
“Private lounge?” I exhale and look around, testing him. “Who wants me in the private lounge?”
“Johnny.”
“And if I ask you to tell him to meet me out here?”
“Mr. Goode doesn’t mingle in the club.”
“And who are you?”
“Concierge.”
“Mr. Goode’s a big spender here, huh?” I glance at the knockout strippers on stage.
Thin, gorgeous, perfect fake tits, toned legs, and long hair. Did he bang them all and got bored?
Something isn’t adding up.
My eyes scan Mr. Concierge’s thin chest for a name badge. Nothing.
“What kind of security do you have here?” I fold my arms.
“The best.”
“You protect your girls?”
“We absolutely protect our girls.” He steps back, motioning to the back of the club toward another hallway. He’s tired of my questions, and I’m interrogating the messenger. “Please. Don’t keep Mr. Goode waiting.”
Swallowing, I mentally put my big-girl pants on. I got into this with Johnny on my own, it’s my responsibility to end it.
No owner of a high-end strip club like this would let a customer hurt me.
“Show me to the private lounge,” I say with my back straight and my head held high.
If my assumptions are wrong, my Ruger will right them.
Mr. Concierge marches down the hallway, and my eyes need a minute to adjust to the darkness. He turns a corner, and the sexy décor fades. After another turn, we’re walking down a wood paneled hallway.
I pass an open door with two women in an office sitting in front of two computers. Their ordinary presence relaxes me. I wonder if this guy is lost.
“Hey, I thought—”
He stops short in front of a door. “Quiet!”
My heart jumps into my throat, and I consider speaking louder. Those women working next door will hear me.
But the office door opens, and I’m pushed inside so hard I tumble to the carpet in front of a man.
Pressed pinstripe slacks. Long legs. Narrow waist. No jacket. Black button-down shirt, open to the mid torso with dark chest hair, and a gold pendant. One I recognize.
Uh oh…
Further up, a handsome, olive-skinned man with dark curly hair greets me, “Hello, Jillian.”
“Where’s…”
“Johnny B. Goode?” He smiles and opens his arms. “I’m right here.”
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I’ve been sleeping with Lazaro Scava, the Borgia underboss.